


Tea and Ice Lattes

by theelderfish



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: F/F, Mentions of Murder, Modern AU, Murder, Older Woman/Younger Woman, Reader is supposed to be in her early thirties, Slow Burn, Younger Alcina, coffee shop AU, its resident evil the dimitrescus are villains there has to be murder, mild violence, this is suppose to be fluffy but we'll see how long that lasts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-18 08:34:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29855394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theelderfish/pseuds/theelderfish
Summary: Some people have ordinary, well known hobbies, like gardening. Yours is making sure an 8 foot tall woman with six baby ducks and probably the worst parent on earth has a good cup of tea every now and then.Coffee Shop AU
Relationships: Lady Dimitrescu (Resident Evil) & Reader, Lady Dimitrescu (Resident Evil)/Reader
Comments: 3
Kudos: 88





	Tea and Ice Lattes

**Author's Note:**

> now, content warnings:  
> mentions of murder, mild violence, infliction of pain

Every third Tuesday, the landlord’s daughter comes in for coffee.

It could be a balmy day without snow or just shy of a blizzard and, without fail, Alcina Dimitrescu would walk in at 4 on the dot. She had only been late once, before you were hired, and five employees had quit after she left.

Or so Rosalyn had told you.

She'd only speak in whispers and only during the height of the day, when you were swamped with orders, so you never could get the whole story from her. From what you had heard, the store was built just for Alcina Dimitrescu as a birthday gift, some fifty years before, which was why she expected only the best from its employees. It also explained why you had to sign a thirty-page contract and outcompete thirty others to get a bloody barista job.

Every afternoon, Alcina followed the same routine. She never deviated except for her greeting, which was different for each of your co-workers, ranging from “oh, it’s _you_ ” to a soft and polite “hello”. After which she would monotonously order the same three drinks in the same exact order. You had memorised it after the first visit because Maxwell had stood in front of you and made you repeat it until 'tea' had ceased to have any real meaning.

First, her tea, which didn’t have a name, or at least didn't have one that you could easily pronounce. It was delivered every two months just for her. Along with it was her personal addition, a thick red syrup that had to be soaked into the leaves every morning and added to the finished product before she deigned to even look at the cup. How she knew when you had forgotten to add the extra syrup was a mystery; she would simply turn her nose up until the necessary five drops were added.

Accompanying her every time she came in were her ducklings, six little fluff balls that were always dressed warmly. You knew she had names for them, but you didn’t ask, and she didn’t say.

The second drink was for them, a cup of cold of milk with a shot of coffee that she called an ‘ice latte’ when she ordered it. She spoilt her ducks; Alcina carried them in a personalised bag, made of real ferret leather and had personalised cups and tables delivered each month for her ducklings. She had even sent a special cup for the drink to be made in so that the taste wouldn’t be ‘ruined.’ She'd dote on them when she sat down, frequently looking away from whatever book or paperwork she brought with her to coo at them as they played in the small pool that was also in the store just for them.

You found it all very surreal.

The third drink she ordered just before paying, when you had all finished having your monthly freak out, which was a hot chocolate to go. Because she and her family were over 8 feet tall, they had their own cup sizes that all restaurants in the area had. She always took a medium of this cup sizing, which was twice the size of a large. If it weren’t for her organs being super-sized, you might have worried about her getting diabetes.

“So,” You had asked once, after she ordered, “Why do you always order the hot chocolate so late?”

She’d taken her eyes off Maxwell, who practically vibrated with nerves, to flick her brows up at you, “I enjoy watching how it’s made, though I wish he didn’t fumble so much.”

Maxwell had been crushed.

Most days you didn’t ask her questions, but she seemed calmer around you than the others. She barely tolerated Maxwell serving her after he missed a question she asked, Rosalyn fainted after every encounter and your manager was never in the store on Tuesdays. You tried to treat her as an ever-shifting puzzle, which was difficult because she was a person and thus not prone to repetitive predictable behaviours, but it helped you notice what mood she was in and avoid pissing off one of the richest people in the country. Then there was her mother, who was even taller and scarier to the point that her name was considered a curse.

That evening, during a mildly shitty day, she preceded Alcina into the store.

Alcina Dimitrescu was an easy 8 foot 7 inches and Countess Dimitrescu was a foot taller. She had never entered the store while you worked there, only ever the occasional pass by when she bothered walking around the village. So, seeing her bend to get through the modified door was terrifying.

She was her daughters opposite in appearance and, had you not known Alcina beforehand, you might have thought she was a secretary to her mother. Countess Dimitrescu wore bright, brilliant colours, a rich crimson fur coat over a cobalt blouse, with Prussian blue pants to match. If Alcina was the picturesque elegance one initially thought of, Countess Dimitrescu was the sleek elegance of old money that many worked hard to capture. She left her red hair loose and fluffy under a yellow fascinator, a loose veil framing the right side of her face. She had a smile like a tiger, but not in the 'oh haha she’s a cougar' sort of way, more in the 'am I legitimately going to make it out alive today’ way.

It's made worse when you realise that the ducks aren't with Alcina that day.

Alcina was a handful to deal with, only because you never could relate to her moods. She was born rich, and she acted accordingly, following some abstract form of behaviour that was both baffling and rude in ways that weren’t immediately obvious. Her ducklings made her more relatable; everyone you knew loved baby ducks and could easily be seen cooing at wild variants while out on a stroll. Alcina was just the rich version of that, seeming more relaxed and happier while her ducklings were around. Any anxiety and disappointment you felt was because you had to walk on eggshells, not because Alcina seemed a little lost without them.

It would be better to focus on the duckless situation than the Countess, who grinned as freely as she ruined people. And she did ruin people, often, by nothing more than her whim and her word. Last month it had been a relative of yours, who she pushed off a building; last week a carpenter lover of hers who was found destitute and delirious out in the woods. Yesterday it had been an artist rival of her most recent fling, who had been attacked by her guard dogs and chased out of the village, bloody and bruised, in broad daylight.

For that reason, you step back from her looming shadow as she comes closer. She has an eerie perfection about her, not a strand of hair out of place, no blemish on her skin. Even the snow seems to have avoided her, for no snowflakes have nestled or melted in her striking hair. You flinch when she slams her hands on the counter and when she forces you to look up, she’s grinning.

You’re not sure how to describe her eyes; they’re gold and black and lack any depth of emotion beyond her amusement. Her hands are ungloved and make your skin burn, like living needles wiggling around while covered in hot sauce. She waits for you to break and you do with a hiss of pain.

“May I help you?” You squeak, making an unsubtle attempt to step away.

The Countess smirks, taking her hands off you, “My Daughter’s tea, three sugars, no milk, ten drops of the syrup.”

You stare for a second, knowing that you hated every moment that just happened but being unsure how to process it properly. “Right.”

She cuts you a glance.

"I mean, yes ma'am."

Alcina steps closer when her mother, who was all smiles again, turns away, “My usual drink.”

You do an awkward thumbs up, trying to stop the tears in your eyes from falling, “You got it.”

Soon, you start to scratch. Lightly at first, then harder and harder, until you can’t move without digging your nails into your face. You barely keep watch of either Dimitrescu, but it isn’t hard to know they’re still there. The Countess speaks loud enough to deafen, and you can hear every word she says while you’re trying to concentrate.

She catches your eye once, her cup poised at her lips and you realise she’s been watching you for a while. She smiles, secretly, and winks at you. You scramble to the back when she isn’t looking, where a fretting Rosalyn rubs ice over your face to soothe the feeling. It helps a little and you go about making a hot chocolate as usual for Alcina.

The Countess calls for you not long after, and you walk back to the till after drying your face. The smile she has is different this time, smug, and she looks you over with a sort of possessiveness that makes you want to forget society and live in a cave eating grubs forever. She captures your hand in both of hers and you almost faint with relief when it doesn’t make your skin crawl. She presses a kiss to it and while you are a little charmed, you’re more scared of this giant, rich, powerful woman taking a liking to you considering her track record.

Alcina looks at you with the same blank expression she always has, but she gives you time to compose yourself after her mother has stepped away. When the Countess is out the door, you put Alcina’s usual hot chocolate on the counter.

“For free.” You murmur when she goes to grab more money.

“Why?”

You scratch a little harder, “You seem like you could use one after all the yelling.”

She looks at you for a long time after that, then quietly places a glass jar on the counter.

“You look like you could use a coffee,” She places the money on the counter, taking the cup slowly, “it might help.”

“Sorry, by the way.” You call as she leaves.

“Why?”

“I know you like to watch when they get made, so…” You shrug.

Alcina looks at you for a moment and you’re not sure if you hallucinate the smile she gives you. Then she’s gone, chasing her terrifying mother who has already left her behind and you’re left with a sore face and a jar full of goop.

**Author's Note:**

> Im uniquevocashark on tumblr if you wanna say hi!
> 
> Original Tumblr post can be found [here.](https://uniquevocashark.tumblr.com/post/643448908363841536/coffee-shop-au-prologue-every-third-tuesday-the)
> 
> This was partially inspired by GhostedPast's [I Like My Coffee Like I Like My Women: Hot and Venti.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29317779/chapters/72000900)
> 
> I'd recommend checking it out.
> 
> and also by evil-regal-vampiress on tumblr, who is responsible for the best characters in this chapter :) (the ducks, its the ducks)


End file.
